Monday, March 11, 2013

This week, I took off from work to watch Spring break
through the winter. I know it’s the time of year when it breaks through a
little, and you get up hope and there’s still a snow storm or two waiting in
April.

My grampy came home to visit my mother. His home is small, he
raised three kids in a very small house. When we brought him to the study, Mama
Duncans pride and joy right now, he was confused that there would be a living
room without a TV.

His mind is like that of a child, exploring the space and
comparing it to his home. “Mama Duncan has a big house doesn’t she?” Said Gramps,
with a tinge of pride in his voice. “Yes she does” said my Aunt. My grandfather
has become the child he always used to remind me I used to be.

Wednesday I curled up in my apartment and told my cats the
story I would tell on Thrusday night. Watched them eat CD’s and steal the paper
it was written on and chew it to pieces. Cats are a different audience than
people, and when I gave my story on Thursday night I looked too hard into human
faces, tried to wonder what they thought of me, of the story and of who I was.

Friday was international woman’s day and people wanted to
hear my story, not the one I had written about the great leaders of a mixed
tribe of African animals; but about who I was and why I was there and where I
had been and what it was like to be me.

And this continued into the day. A story telling workshop
that made me grow stronger. Being a listener to so many other women’s stories, as
I had been listened to in the morning. I cried and laughed and huged strangers
who are no longer strangers.

For two days I bounced in front of audiences and bravely told
the story that I wrote, and each of the telling became more and more of a
performance and less of me being scared I’d miss a word. I was energized all
weekend. Great vegan gluten free meals great chats with friends. A refreshed
inner soul.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

I lit a cigarette and smoked it on the bridge, I threw the
butt on the ground beside the Tim Hortons mug and the paper towel that was
flying around. There’s no one hired in the winter to clean up the dirt. In the
summer, because there might be lost tourists who abandon the pretty
towns and come here, people with yellow vests pick up the garbage, I usually
see them once in the summer.

The boys bum a cigarette from me and smoke beside me.

“Have you told your parents yet?” I asked the one with the
curly black hair and the mustache.

He took a drag and shook his head. “Mom likes the people on TV, but I’m not like that.”

His friend piped up, “They liked you yesterday, they’ll like
you today. Just like me.”

I lit another one, “There’s a magic you will always have.” I
said “The magic of knowing who you are.”

“I had to work hard at it.” Said the guy who seemed to look
like a child but knew what I was talking about. "You?"

“I have depression and had to find myself through the pieces
that no one else wanted to see. That i didn't want to see.”

“People will want to see me as I am.” He said “they don’t
have a choice, I’m pretty cool."

"What about your mothers plans to have a daughter in law." I asked. Seeing that look in his eyes that told me he was putting on more of a front than he wanted me to know.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

The town is dirty, with all the melting snow and the
gravel.The snow plows have thrown dirt on the pavement,
on purpose ,instead of salt. In the distance all one can see is a mess, and
since it’s my town it takes a piece of pride because this town is
this dirty.

The pale inhabitants, not sure if they should wear bright
colours outside, or not go outside at all brave the wind and lack of sun to go
to the fast food joints. Two high school boys are crossing the bridge eating Wendy’s.I
hate the smell of fast food. I don’t look at them but can hear them. One admits
to the other that he’s gay and thus completely changes his future in 2 seconds,
they keep walking as if discussing the weather.

I walk to store to get three peppers;. A red and yellow and
orange, for my salad, that I will be eating the rest of the week. On my way
home, a random guy says hello. I do not look at him or talk to him, I do not
want to seem vulnerable, silly, that I am the girl who walks everywhere.

Two women walk past me at a great pace, as if training for
the races; I am on vacation and have no place to go but home and let them pass and let them walk away from me.

Monday, March 4, 2013

I believe I have some power, a little extra on the side to
put towards something special. I’m not focusing all my energy into keeping me
alive, it’s not all going toward my job, towards Dr’s appointments. There’s a
little more I can use to put towards my voice.

I have been
whispering for so long. It’s time to speak a little louder. There’s a power inside
my voice.

My voice slips in and
out of my life like an affair with a traveling minstrel. I have no choice when
this lover visits. In my twenties it was torrid, an hour a day at the piano and
I would sing in hall ways and streets. But I had no idea what I was saying.

I sit down at the
keys. I am creating something new and unforeseen. Like that Beethoven piece, I
am singing a song that’s been done billions of times over, and my version has
never been heard before.

And this minstrel doesn’t
mind the whisper and the stumble because I’m aware of the power of my voice
that has been in the silence the last six years. My voice has learned from the
silence, but softly it must learn to sing again.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

In which I take what would regularly be a poem and
articulate it into a mini essay...

There are a lot of dreams that have walked through this
park. The dreams, like the fashion, seemed to have changed meaning, changed
velocity, changed priority.

At twenty years I sat
on the park bench and read theatre, and knew that my imagination and passion
was enough to take me anywhere. That I would close my eyes and follow the path
in front of me and it would come true, as I had it planned.

That dream didn’t come true as it was supposed to. So I
spent many years as the park bench letting the dreams pass, like people on
their daily commute.

There are some that come every day; drink a coffee, hold on
to my heart and pull me in directions I would love to go. There is a dreamer
who sits on the dewy morning seat and writes four pages of journal knowing that
like the runner passing she is in training for the novel.

There is a cat lady at my bench who feeds the homeless cats
the tuna from her sandwich and does TNR to stop the suffering. She is a vegan
except for the tuna sandwiches. She tells disbelievers that if she stopped
eating fish she wouldn’t be able to feed the cats.

There’s one the dream of having and being a wonderful lover
that sleeps the night on the park bench and he’s always gone by morning. During
the day is an Oscar winning screenwriting the except the script has never been
finished.

There are many dreams that pass and I smell their perfume or
stroke their hair.

At 36 I sit at the park bench again. A book in my hand, my
imagination running and all the lessons from the last 16 years that will go
into the dreams of the future. It’s sad, but there needs to be more than
passion and imagination.

The park rangers summon me to pick up a hammer and some
nails and build a new park bench.

About Me

I write and sing. I have an awesome writing group and music teachers that help me song write and sing even on the bad days. I have two cats Izzy and Tini. And continue to write myself out of depression.